


for the sweetest leaves

by Etherea



Series: Multiship Kinktober 2020 [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Dominant Triss Merigold, F/F, Inappropriate Use of Plants, Submissive Yennefer of Vengerberg, That's Not Actually A Tag Yet And I Totally Get Why But Still, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26814535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etherea/pseuds/Etherea
Summary: Kinktober Day 3: Praise Kink
Relationships: Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Multiship Kinktober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947865
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	for the sweetest leaves

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of a cheat, in that the praise makes the recipient squirm. In a good way.

Lacework tendrils chase up and over bare skin, heralding the gooseflesh that springs up as oversensitive skin responds to the plants' touch. Triss's fingers dance in the air as they twist chaos into green life, each soft stalk and branch unfurling like windswept ribbons to tease the woman before her. With reverence they bind her, knowing even as they do, that she could break free in an instant.

Or so Triss assumes. Thank Destiny, she had never been in a position to face Yennefer in battle. To stand at her side, feel the radiant heat as she burnt and tore her enemies into dust, was enough to thoroughly put her off calculating even the hypothetical odds of their respective strengths and weaknesses.

She turns her attention once more to the woman laid before her like a feast.

"Look at you. Glorious." Triss keeps her words soft, knowing from experience how the pressure of the vines' restraint made one's world contract, everything so close and sharply focused and amplified that it was easy to be overwhelmed. Even this gentle voice sent tremors down Yen's neck and arms, leaving her long elegant fingers trembling and flexing. Triss permits herself a small smile.  
  
"You, who give so much of yourself to leaders and causes so undeserving of your devotion. From whom so much has been taken. And yet you lay yourself down for me, that I may take yet more from you." Yennefer squirms, opening her mouth to protest, and Triss shushes her. "I see you, and your denial. I will have none of it." A finger-wide vine sprouts near her collarbone and surges upwards, wrapping around teeth and tongue and jaw like a bit and curb chain. Yen's brows draw together in an attempt at frustration, but her glazed eyes belie her bliss.

The plants swell and hoist her aloft, the caress of their leaves touching and retreating, echoing the continued quiet praise from her peer and lover.

"Such power you hold here," and the words are accompanied by a glancing touch just left of her breastbone. Above her heart. Triss leans in and plants a kiss there, staying to nip and lick, relishing the muffled noises her attentions. "How can I not be humbled, that you submit willingly to me, you who could be Empress of the Continent and all the spheres beyond." That brings forth flared nostrils and whining noises. "Still you protest? Hush. Let me hold you," and the greenery swells and contracts, turning Yen's noises to groans and wet, half-choked gasps, "and properly demonstrate my gratitude."

The corsetry of writhing vines shifts, laying Yennifer back in mi-air, and if she notes any difference between the touch of skin or leaf, she gives no sign; both, it seems, are ecstasy. Every new contact with her skin is followed by twitches, and tonal shifts with no meaning, only _want_. Wild shuddering follows each tweak of her nipples, and the slow tracing of her shoulder blade seems equally pleasurable. A long string of saliva trails out one side of her mouth as her head lolls to the side. She is elsewhere; that will never do. Triss reaches forwards to yank and the vines against Yen's chest, and their eye connect.

"Be here. Feel this." They are commands, and they are obeyed.

Is it Yen that spreads her legs, aided and abetted by the plants, or do they urge her on with her following their lead. Even Triss, nominally in charge of the evening's proceedings, cannot say with certainty. She allows her hands to trail down Yen's front, tangling briefly in her curls as she considers her next words. Carefully now; she knows as well as any sorceress the trespasses committed here.

"You are so kind, so trusting," Triss begins, and at that Yen's struggles begin anew, her head valiantly attempting to shake, to throw off the unfamiliar weight of praise. "Oh but you are, my darling. To welcome me here," and at last she permits one fingertip to trace down the very edge of one glistening fold. "You honour me with your certainty that I come not to take, but only to give. I beg you, accept my offering."

And then her pretty words are done. If Yennifer is a feast for her, this is the triumph; a work of art, meant first to be admired, and then tasted. And so she does.

Part of her mind is on the vines; decades of precise practice automating the work of keeping her lover steady, ensuring the tempo of her blood and breath stayed strong. Her conscious mind she set to the task of lighting up every nerve ending neglected, waking the urges Yen controlled as tightly as she did the torrent of chaos that coursed through her upon command. Shuddering sighs merged with whimpers and desperate moans, from touches and then their absence, at the tongue laving inside her slick-drenched lips. Helpful delicate pea-shoot sprouts reached out to spread her yet further, making way for tongue and fingers and the thickest vine yet to enter and caress these parts as thoroughly as they had the rest of her. When Triss had to lean back to take a proper breath, she set her plants to work in her place. Through them she felt every one of her lover's movements. The press and flex to flee the adoration Yen _still_ felt undeserving of, and the relief with the bonds held her in place instead. Here she could thrash and moan and cry and know that none of it was weakness to be exploited or a spectacle to be jeered at.

* * *

Hours later, throats raw and wrung-out bodies limp from countless screaming pleasures, they curl into and around one another, and weep again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the poem [Tea](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/462578-i-like-pouring-your-tea-lifting-the-heavy-pot-and) by Carol Ann Duffy


End file.
